In the Open
My base is ‘the glade’, I’m working up close to the smell of sap from fresh-cut leaves, stepping back to inspect my progress, each footfall is cushioned in a plush carpet of leaf mould and moss, the mottled muted colours dotted with bold splashes of white: the underside of fallen monster ‘magnificum’ leaves.
The cool grey of looming rain doesn’t dampen my mood it’s still the ideal ‘open-plan office’: there’s the background ‘chatter’ of unseen birds interspersed with drumming from the woodpecker hoping for a mate, and background music all the while courtesy of the stream below.
My walk in each day is across a footbridge; looking down, the stream bed is littered with the remnants of a fantastical children’s party: each child has thrown in a pink purse, or a rabbit’s ear, or a floppy conch shell. (Or it’s the the waxy fallen flower-cups from rhodi’s higher up the gorge.)
